The Wolves of Gascony
by Umeko
Summary: The Inseparables suffer a devastating loss and find themselves on the hunt for a pack of maneating wolves, but are the wolves really responsible for the deaths or is something more sinister stalking the countryside? [On Hiatus]
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – 3 Musketeers and the characters belong to Alexander Dumas.

This is rated M for many reasons, mainly gore and violence, with some disturbing imagery. Don't like, don't proceed further. Character death.

**Chapter 1**

_Gascony._

He could not believe this was happening to him. Surely it must be some nightmare. The blazing pain as fangs and claws ripped into his flesh… He glanced down and was horrified to see one of the monsters tugging a coil of gut out of his ravaged belly. He tried to scream again but only managed a strangled choke from all the blood filling his mouth. At least the girl escaped. _No, he can't possibly die this way… A soldier's death in battle, yes. In the course of some dangerous mission, yes… But definitely not… Please, Lord… not… _One of the beasts ripped his thigh to the bone. He fell onto the blood-splattered grass.

The leader of the pack breathed his fetid breath into his face. D'Artagnan was aware of the slavering jaws gaping inches from his face. Surely this was the end. The beast was going to tear his throat out like some savaged sheep. A shrill whistle came to his ears… The beasts left him alone to his agony. There were men shouting… but he knew they would be too late… Human hands cradled his head.

"NO! Georges… No!" It was his father.

_Sorry, father… Constance… everyone… I wish… _He tried to speak but his tongue would not work. D'Artagnan sank into an oblivion from which there was no return.

* * *

_Two weeks earlier. _

"Send my regards to Bertrand," Monsieur de Treville added as he handed the letters to his family to the young Gascon. D'Artagnan had been granted leave to visit his parents and it would only be a day or two's detour for him to send the letters to de Treville's kinsfolk. "I will, sir!" D'Artagnan was positively beaming and for good reason. In addition to becoming a full-fledged musketeer of the king, the young man had finally proposed to the queen's lady-in-waiting, Constance. She had accepted without hesitation. Now he was going home to announce the good news to his parents.

A wedding date would probably be set for the following spring. Before that, decisions and arrangements would have to be made with regards to their future. D'Artagnan's work as a musketeer would keep him away from his parents for months. They were getting on the years. Perhaps the pair would like to come to Paris and live with their daughter-in-law? It was likely that Constance would leave her post at court to devote her time to being a wife and mother. Or would it be more reasonable for the Constance to move to Gascony? D'Artagnan would like their children to grow up in the beautiful countryside where he grew up. Constance looked forward to meeting D'Artagnan's family, but it was unthinkable for a lady to travel with an unrelated man without a chaperon. A trip might be arranged later with some respectable widow as a chaperon.

"Good luck, you little scamp!" Porthos reached up and ruffled D'Artagnan's hair as he sat in the saddle. He narrowly missed losing a few fingers to the chomping teeth of the Gascon's garrulous mare.

"Monsieur, your lunch…" Planchet grinned broadly and handed a bulging sack to the young man. The servant was fond of D'Artagnan for his easy and open manner. "Are you trying to break Buttercup's back?" Porthos teased and lightly cuffed the man's shoulder.

"No, Monsieur! It's only a loaf of bread and wedge of cheese…" the servant yelped before he scurried off. Porthos often forgot his own strength.

"Yes, D'Artagnan is a growing boy, he needs to eat," Aramis added. He browsed casually through the instructions their captain had given them. Porthos, Aramis and Athos were to go pick up and escort the young wife and children of a Spanish noble to the border, where they would be handed over to the Spanish. It was a routine mission. Athos and one of the younger musketeers were returning with the horses, just in time to bid farewell. De Treville was called away by the arrival of a message from the king.

"I must be going…" D'Artagnan smiled and waved to his three best friends. A glimmer of sunlight off the youth's little finger drew Athos' attention. Without thinking, he reached out and grasped the youth's hand. A sapphire stone glimmered in a silver ring on D'Artagnan's hand. It was a delicate ring, meant for a lady and it was a snug fit even on D'Artagnan's little finger. D'Artagnan coloured under his friend's scrutiny.

"I-it's a token from Constance. She had it from her mother…" Constance had given him the ring off her finger when she accepted his proposal, as a token of their promise to each other. On hindsight, the gilded locket he had given her seemed almost tacky, even if it was now the trend to give one's beloved a lock of one's hair in a locket. Constance was well aware of that fad but it seemed too much to ask her to sacrifice even a strand of hair off her head for his sake. It was then that she gave him the ring and he could not refuse her.

"Wear it on a cord round your neck. That little gem will have every brigand on the road after it," Athos advised. D'Artagnan was capable of holding his own against the average bandit but it never paid to take chances.

"I'd like to see them try," D'Artagnan grinned. Still, he pulled his gloves over his hands, hiding the ring from view. Buttercup whinnied and tossed her head.

"I'll pray for your safe journey," Aramis added as he pulled Athos clear of Buttercup's teeth. The Gascon bade his goodbyes and ambled off. Watching both horse and rider disappear down the street, Athos shuddered. He had an uneasy feeling that this was the last time he would see D'Artagnan alive. He wanted to call him back but his voice stuck in his throat. As if sensing Athos' discomfort, Aramis clasped a hand over the gold cross he always wore and muttered a quiet prayer for a safe journey.

"What's wrong?" Porthos asked as he peered in the distance, trying to catch a last glimpse of horse and rider through the crowd of market vendors and customers.

* * *

_Two weeks' later…_

"What's wrong?" Porthos asked Athos. The musketeer had pulled his horse to an abrupt stop at the side of a country path. Athos was staring at a copse of gnarled oaks on which a flock of cawing ravens were roosting. Occasionally, the ominous birds would drop to the grass below and peck at the dirt.

"D'Artagnan's home should be this way," Aramis studied a weathered stone marker by the road. They had concluded their mission with no interference by either the Cardinal's forces or Buckingham. The Spanish woman and her children have been reunited with her husband. It was Porthos who suggested a detour to visit D'Artagnan, seeing they were near his home, and possibly making the journey back to Paris with him. D'Artagnan was not due to return to Paris for a week or so.

"Hark, listen…" Athos shushed his companions. They heard a hunting horn and the distant barking of hounds. Someone was hunting, most likely a noble. It was early summer and the peasantry would be busy with farming and other chores. D'Artagnan's father owned a modest farm with a few horses and a herd of cattle. The yipping of hounds died away. All they heard was the wind rustling through the trees and the cawing of the ravens.

Athos slid out of his saddle and picked his way cautiously towards the oaks. Protesting ravens took flight at his approach. The grass below was trampled and stained dark in places. There was mild coppery tang to the air which they were no strangers to.

"Something was killed here, maybe a lamb…" Aramis sniffed. "Foxes or wolves… that would explain the hunt…"

"I doubt it's a sheep…" Athos gingerly lifted a torn and bloodied shred of cloth from the grass. "It's getting dark, we better get to the village or else we will be the ones sleeping with the wolves in the open…"

* * *

"D'Taggin?" the old man wheezed and cupped his hand to his ear.

"No, D'Artagnan! We're looking for the D'Artagnans' farm!" Athos literally exploded with rage at the hapless villager. Aramis had to restrain him for fear the old man would come to physical harm over his deafness. The sun was setting and the idea of spending a night in the open or in some farmer's barn did not appeal to any of them.

The old man did not reply but raised an arthritic finger, pointing in the direction of a distant farmhouse. Athos murmured his thanks with as much grace as his fury would allow.

The path leading to the building was churned into a quagmire and they were obliged to lead their steeds on foot. There was a sombre pall over the farm buildings as they approached. The cows lowed from the paddock. A gaggle of geese fled out of their way.

"Who goes there!" a young voice called out. Athos was confronted with a pitchfork in his face. The wielder was a young lad not much older than his own son.

"Easy, we're friends of D'Artagnan from Paris…" the musketeer replied firmly and pushed the offending weapon aside.

"Really? Are you the King's musketeers?" the boy's suspicious eyes darted to the swords in the musketeers' belts. "Georges' friends?" he lowered the pitchfork. "Should have come sooner…" the youngster shouldered his pitchfork and beckoned them to follow him.

A lamp burned in the window of the main farmhouse. The suffocating sense of foreboding grew even heavier as they approached the farmhouse. Aramis paused when the first weak sobs reached his ears. Athos and Porthos heard them too. The house was in mourning. Something had happened. _Could it be D'Artagnan senior?_ D'Artagnan had confided in Aramis that his father was suffering from pains in the chest recently, possibly his heart. If the boy had lost his father, they should be there for him.

Silently, they allowed the boy to take their horses and lead them to the stables. D'Artagnan's aged mare was standing in the yard, casting her forlorn gaze over the newcomers. She flicked her tail and plodded away when the boy called her.

The boy led them inside the farmhouse. A few sombrely-dressed women were gathered in the hall. They only gave the intruders a passing glance before returning to their weeping. A coffin was resting in the centre of the room. The musketeers gasped when they saw who was lying in it. Their first reaction was that of disbelief.

"N-no…" Athos blanched and almost stumbled. Porthos had to support him. Aramis gasped and murmured a prayer. "Told you you should've come sooner…" their young guide repeated.

D'Artagnan was lying like a pale wax effigy inside the coffin with the sheet pulled almost up to his chin. He looked so young with his smooth cheeks and hairless chin. His hair had been combed back but stray strands had escaped and seemed to be dancing as if he were still breathing, but they knew it was only an illusion cast by the flickering candlelight. D'Artagnan was without doubt very dead.

"This can't be!" Athos bellowed and tore free from his friends. "D'Artagnan! Open your eyes, this is an order! What about Constance? Or your parents? You can't just die like this… " the stricken man grabbed hold of the corpse by the shoulders and shook it. The women shrieked.

"Athos! Stop! Control yourself!" Aramis and Porthos leapt forward to stop him. Athos ripped the sheet covering the coffin off. He should not have. One of the women screamed and fainted, forcing her companions to tend to her instead of setting on Athos.

The stench of decay hit them, compounded by the summer heat. Whoever had dressed the corpse had done their best to hide the worst of the damage to the body but the fluids of decay were already seeping through the bandages and clothes. The arms had been arranged in an attitude of prayer over the young man's breast but his left wrist terminated in a bandaged stump. The right hand was missing at least two fingers. The abdomen had sunken in and the shirt and breeches there were sodden in dark fluids.

Athos turned away and fought against the acrid gorge at the back of his throat. Their young guide was retching violently in a corner while Porthos thumped him encouragingly on the back. The large man looked awfully pale himself. Aramis pulled the sheet back over the mangled legs, belly and paused for a moment. He took his cross off and placed it in his friend's hand before pulling the sheet back up to the young man's chin.

"H-how did this happen?" Athos gasped when Aramis and Porthos managed to get him seated on a bench and calmed down. "How?" he buried his face in his hands and wept.

**Author's Notes: **

Yes, I've done it. I had a musketeer torn to pieces by wild animals. D'Artagnan is dead from this chapter onwards. No returning from the dead or any of that stuff.

I made some minor updates:

1) Putting in a paragraph that was somehow lost

2) Using the name Georges for D'Artagnan's first name.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer – 3 Musketeers and the characters belong to Alexander Dumas.

This is rated M for many reasons, mainly gore and violence, with some disturbing imagery.

Heard some rather disturbing whispers about recently. Let's see how things work out.

**Chapter 2**

_D'Artagnan, you… how could you do this to us?_ Athos quietly chided his dead comrade as he stared at that sad tableau before him. His tears had stopped for now. Aramis had his hands clasped and his lips moved silently, seeking solace in prayers. Porthos was sitting sullenly by the fire, absent-mindedly stroking a plump housecat which had settled in his lap. No one really felt like speaking. A brawny farmwife had brought them some watered wine and coarse bread paired with a soft cheese. Even though they had eaten nothing since noon, they barely touched their food. D'Artagnan's mother was inconsolable. The poor woman had her apron up to her face and was weeping softly into it while the other women tried to console her. D'Artagnan's father had taken to his bed. The shock of his only child's death proved too much for his heart.

Wolf attacks were not uncommon in the countryside. Several people have been killed by the beasts in the vicinity since the start of the year and that was enough for a petition to be sent to Paris. King Louis XIII replied by sending his royal huntsmen. Even the local comte was taking part in the hunt. So far, their efforts have come to nought.

_It was not fair. D'Artagnan had everything to live for… And the manner in which he was taken from them… Torn to pieces by wild beasts…_ Athos felt his heart twist thinking of the terror which without a doubt filled the young man's last moments on earth. _How could God allow this to happen?_

Athos finally tore his eyes away from the coffin. Their young guide was sitting on a stool by the front door, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

"You better go to bed, boy…" Athos said gruffly. "It must be past your bedtime.

The boy scowled. "I'm not an infant, monsieur. And my name is Jean-Baptiste," he stuck out his chin in a manner which reminded Athos of D'Artagnan.

"I don't care if your name is Jean-Baptiste, Saint Francis or King Charles of England. You look barely a day past eight summers…"

"I'm ten! Just I'm a little small… OW!" the young boy rubbed his head where the farmwife had rapped him with a ladle.

"Forgive this little half-wit, sir. I'll teach him not to be rude to his betters," the woman apologised and seized the protesting boy by the ear. Before she could chide him further, the front door was all but torn from its hinges by the sudden entry of a party of men. Instinctively, the musketeers leapt to their feet, hands going to their swords. Then they saw the hounds clustering about the men's feet. They were huntsmen, some of whom wore the uniforms of royal huntsmen. Athos and his friends relaxed and let their hands drop to their sides. Jean-Baptiste made use of the distraction to flee from the country woman's grasp.

"No sign of hair or hide of the beasts!" one of the huntsmen flung his muddy cloak onto the floor in disgust. "You!" he snapped at Mrs D'Artagnan. "Quit your wailing there! Get us and our hounds some food!" He was a man whose face spoke of a foul temper. One hapless hound wandered too close to his boot and was dealt a kick in the ribs. Whimpering piteously, the hound scampered to join its fellows by the hearth. His beady eyes barely took in the mourners huddled against the far wall. Mrs D'Artagnan and another woman retreated to the kitchen.

"So this is the latest victim of those beasts…" he spat and strode over to the coffin. "Should've left him out there… Wolves always return to a kill… Perhaps there is still time to put him back out…"

"Gervaise, please! That's not Christian!" a farm woman protested but the hunter disregarded her. She gripped the ladle in her hand like a weapon.

The three musketeers tensed. If the man took one more step forward…

"Don't you dare touch my son!" The tone of authority in that voice was so much like de Treville's that the trio instinctively snapped to attention. The owner was standing at the top of a flight of stairs, leaning heavily on a walking stick. A young girl hastened forward to help him but D'Artagnan senior walked slowly down the stairs on his own. The resemblance was striking even with the creases and grey hair of age. The musketeers could see the determined light in the older man's eyes. It was the same light they had seen many times in the younger D'Artagnan's eyes.

Grevaise was much taller and bulkier than the bereaved father, but the elder D'Artagnan was not one to be daunted. He straightened up as much as he could and stepped between his dead son and the hunting party. The huntsman stepped forward a step. Silently, Porthos strode over to stand beside D'Artagnan's father. Aramis and Athos slipped over just as silently and faced Grevaise. The huntsman scowled. He had enough wits to know he was no match for three able-bodied men, even more so when his fellow hunters murmured darkly behind his back about his proposed plan to use the victim's corpse as bait. He was a proud man and the thought of conceding defeat to an old farmer did not appeal to him.

For a few heartbeats they stood thus in immobile silence. The sound of carriage wheels and hoof-beats came in through the window.

"The comte! Comte Reynald is here!" Jean-Baptiste bounded into the room. He was swiftly followed by a well-dressed nobleman. The peasants and huntsmen bowed. Even Grevaise was obliged to observe the necessary etiquette, being of lower rank. The comte calmly took in the scene before him. His gaze rested a fraction of a moment longer on Athos as a spark of recognition sank in. It has been years since they had last seen each other, back when Athos was still a youngster accompanying his father on visits to the households of other nobles.

Before either comte could speak, another figure entered the room.

"Lady Isabelle…" the whispers of surprise and awe rushed through the room like a soft breeze. The young lady was modestly dressed but her simple attire only served to better bring out her beauty. She lowered her hood back to reveal a wealth of dark tresses framing an angelic face. Her green eyes were intelligent as she assessed the situation before her.

"Monsieur Bertrand, my condolences on your loss…" the lady spoke and took hold of D'Artagnan senior's hands and held them between hers. "We will remember you in our prayers…"

"Thank you, my lady…" Bertrand wept softly, touched by the young woman's kindness.

"Where is the other? We hear that there is a living one…" Comte Reynald cut in.

"Poor Louise is at her grandmother's and grievously wounded," the farm woman with the ladle replied. The comte glared at the woman and then Bertnand.

"Monsieur, you will do well to exert more control over your servants." Bertrand tensed at that reprimand.

"Papa, we must call on the poor girl's family…" Lady Isabelle placed a dainty hand on her father's arm and coaxed. She turned to the huntsman. "Monsieur Grevaise, we really must insist that you and your men accept the hospitality of our chateau…"

"M-merci, my lady…" Grevaise had the look of a stunned schoolboy. Comte Reynald only snorted softly.

Bertnand expressed his profuse thanks to the musketeers once the hunting party and the comte's entourage took to the road for the chateau. "Georges has written much about you… He called you his best friends… Marianne, please prepare some rooms for our guests… we can't possibly let George's friends sleep in the kitchen." The farm wife who had defied Grevaise earlier hurried off to do her master's bidding.

* * *

They would like to sit up at the wake a bit longer, but the weariness of their day took their toll on them and they were so falling over with drowsiness. With great reluctance, they retired for the night.

Marianne had prepared two guest rooms upstairs. Porthos took the smaller of the two while Aramis and Athos took the other. Too exhausted to even undress for bed, they fell asleep in their clothes. Aramis awoke the next morning to find himself alone. Sounds of the household bustling about the morning chores drifted in through the window. Stretching and trying to smooth the creases in his clothes, he strode out into the hallway. Porthos had left his room door open and was still snoring softly. Aramis peered in and was amused to see that his large friend had his head and shoulders hanging off the end of the bed while his feet were draped over the bedstead.

"Athos?" The older musketeer was standing at the doorway of another bedroom. "Athos?" Aramis called again.

Athos did not seem to hear him, so he went to join his friend.

_D'Artagnan._ It was D'Artagnan's room they were looking at. Every inch of the room spoke of the dead man's presence. A rumpled shirt was carelessly tossed over the bed, which had been made. A book sat open on the sturdy table by the window, which had been left open a crack, allowing sunlight to spill into the room. Wordlessly, Athos strode over to the window and fastened the shutters.

"Abbe, come… we must go to the funeral…" Athos said quietly. "Before that, let's get Porthos out of bed."

* * *

"Jean-Baptiste! You get back here!" Marianne's voice shrieked as a small shadow darted past the stairs, barrelling into the musketeers coming down the stairs. The little imp squirmed free and ran out of the door.

"That boy will be the death of me!" the irate housekeeper wiped her hands on her apron. Her cap was askew and soot smeared her face and garments. She saw the guests. "Would you like some breakfast first, monsieur? There is still some time before the funeral…"

"We're not hungry," Athos replied curtly.

"Then go wash up. You can't possibly go to the church like that…" Marianne said. The three men glanced down at their clothes and swore when they saw the sooty marks left on them by the escaping Jean-Baptiste.

"One would think that child would be better behaved in such circumstances," Athos growled.

"Jean-Baptiste has always been a bit wild. He was so much better behaved with Master Georges and Old Monsieur Bertrand…" Marianne shrugged.

"Are Georges' friends awake?" a thin voice called out from above. It was D'Artagnan's mother. The poor woman's eyes were swollen from crying. She was dressed to go to church. Her husband supported her arm as they picked their way down the stairs.

"Marianne… Please prepare a basket. We will be calling on Louise and her grandmother after the funeral, and put in that jar of salve…" Mrs D'Artagnan managed to compose herself enough to instruct the housekeeper. "Get some turnips and carrots… We heard those hounds dug up their vegetable garden…"

"Trying time, ma'am," Marianne remarked dryly. "The king's own huntsmen and not one of them able to catch so much as a hare. I heard from old Pierre that his son came to blows with one of the hunters after their hounds got into the Bourdins' flock and killed a lamb. No shepherd or goatherd is risking going out to the pastures for fear of the beasts…"

"I don't see young Jean-Baptiste around… That boy hasn't gone into the woods again, has he?" Bertrand cut in. "It's not safe…"

"That boy just took off through that door…" Porthos replied.

"Don't worry too much about him, sirs," Marianne replied. "He's probably in the barn with Buttercup. Master Georges promised him that old mare after he got that young stallion."

"Wait, we're trusting a child with that devil-horse?" Athos winced at the thought of the many times that cranky mare had kicked and bit them. "Buttercup is harmless," Bertrand stressed but he did not sound too sure. The men hurried to the window. Jean-Baptiste was riding the piebald mare. He still had soot and grime on his face and clothes. Buttercup was snorting and pawing restlessly. Jean-Baptiste was riding bare-backed, even though a crude bridle had been rigged.

Both horse and rider galloped out the open gate and down the road.

**Author's Notes:**

I have read accounts of tiger-hunting in India during the British Raj. One way of luring a tiger into the open is to set up a hide over a tiger-kill and wait for the beast to return. Predators tend to cache what they cannot finish at one sitting for later. Normally, wolves tend to finish their kills if uninterrupted as they are pack animals.

Not sure what a typical farming household of the era would be like, but it is likely we have some household staff and farm-help. Since Bertrand and his wife are getting on in their years, they would need some help with running the farm. Marianne and Jean-Baptiste are that help.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer – 3 Musketeers and the characters belong to Alexander Dumas.

This is rated M for many reasons, mainly gore and violence, with some disturbing imagery.

**Chapter 3**

The turnout at the graveside was large for Georges D'Artagnan was well-liked by his neighbours. There was nary a dry eye as the priest recited the eulogy over the open grave. Wildflowers were tossed onto the coffin before the earth was shovelled in. Porthos was blubbering like a baby throughout the service. Aramis wept quietly as he supported Monsieur Bertrand with one arm. Marianne held Madame D'Artagnan's hands in hers as the poor woman wept on her shoulder. The bereaved parents seemed to be on the verge of collapse. Their faces were grey and Bertrand was gasping for breath every now and then.

Athos' tears did not come easily. He had wept enough. There was something they should do for their departed friend. "Aramis, we must send word to Monsieur de Treville…" Athos whispered to his friend as the gravediggers patted the last piece of sod over the sad grave. Aramis nodded. Their captain would be greatly saddened. Monsieur de Treville looked on the young recruit as one would a son. Then there was poor Constance. "Tell him we will be staying to hunt down the beasts which killed…"

"Wait, we don't know anything of hunting… We're not professionals like the royal huntsmen, and it might not be proper…" Aramis frowned. The last thing de Treville would want is to have a confrontation between his musketeers and the royal huntsmen. The huntsmen would not take kindly to three mere musketeers interfering with their hunt, especially if they seem to be bungling it.

"I'm not suggesting hunting for pleasure, Aramis. We're going to help the villagers." _And avenge D'Artagnan. _"The royal huntsmen are not doing the villagers any good, especially that bastard Grevaise," Athos replied. "If you wouldn't write to the captain, I will…"

"Who's going to ride back to Paris? Or will we be sending the letter with a carter?" Aramis asked. He wondered if Athos wanted him to ride back to Paris with the message. He did not wish to be the harbinger of bad news.

"Comte de la Fere will be paying a courtesy call on Comte Reynald. I'm sure if we asked nicely, he could spare us a messenger from the huntsmen…" Athos replied. His words died off as Jean-Baptiste came galloping through the churchyard on Buttercup. The boy narrowly avoided trampling the priest, who yelled curses at the wayward rider. Jean-Baptiste rode the mare twice round the gravesite, scattering mourners. He seemed to have some difficulties managing the stubborn old horse. Old Bertrand and Porthos hastened over to catch the reins. Startled by Porthos trying to grab her reins, Buttercup reared and Jean-Baptiste fell with a resounding smack on his bottom in the dirt.

Porthos could not help but guffaw at the sight of the boy's bewildered face. His laugh was infectious and soon more than one mourner was smiling.

"Jean-Baptiste! What were you thinking bringing Buttercup here?" Marianne tugged the boy onto his feet and smacked his rear resoundingly hard.

"Buttercup wanted to say goodbye to Master Georges…" Jean-Baptiste scowled and glared at Porthos, who was trying in vain to stifle his laughter. Bertrand had taken the reins of the mare and was whispering soothing words into her ears. Buttercup calmed down and allowed D'Artagnan Senior to lead her away, having paid her respects to her fallen master.

"Jean-Baptiste!" Marianne screeched and yanked the hapless boy onto his feet by the ear. Scolding him heartily, the countrywoman dragged him out of the churchyard.

* * *

_Dear Captain de Treville…_ Aramis paused and chewed on the end of his quill-pen. He stretched his legs under the table. _How should he break the news? _Monsieur D'Artagnan all but collapsed when he made it back home. Porthos had to help him up to his bed. Their intention to linger in the village was met with some resistance from Marianne, who pointedly informed them that they would not be put up for free. That was why Porthos was now chopping firewood under Marianne's watchful eye in the yard. She had a point. They could not impose on the household…

"Aramis… How do I look?"

Aramis turned to catch sight of Athos in the doorway. Athos had dusted off his humble travelling clothes the best he could. The boots on his feet were polished to a shine. "I'm going to call on Comte Reynald."

"The letter is not ready yet…" Aramis replied. He removed his reading glasses from his nose and closed his eyes wearily. Athos made an impatient noise in his throat.

"I'll ride over to the Comte's first." _And get ourselves in the hunting party. _

"While you're there, you might want to check if he could put us up too…" Aramis peered out the window. Marianne was wiping Porthos' brow with her sleeve as she stood on tiptoe. Nearby, Jean-Baptiste glared at the pair as he carried the firewood away.

"Why is that?" Athos raised an eyebrow.

"Because Porthos might make a more permanent arrangement with Marianne if they continue sharing a roof."

Athos gave a weak smile at that statement.

"I have to go if I want to get there before sunset…" Athos shrugged and arranged his cloak on his shoulders. Aramis nodded and returned to racking his brains over how to break the news to their captain and Constance.

* * *

The comte lived in an old-fashioned chateau with turrets and slit-like windows, a far cry from the more contemporary manor house Athos inherited from his father. The only thing missing was a moat, Athos mused as he rode past the ruins of what might have once been a fortified wall. Once upon a time there would have been a thriving settlement at the foot of the keep. Now, only a few rundown cottages remained. The stone walls of the keep were well-weathered and one of the furthest towers sported damage from some bygone war. Half the roof was gone and a flock of pigeons were perched on the remaining slates.

The sun was starting to dip towards the west when he entered the courtyard, having dismounted and entrusted his steed to a scrawny stable-boy. Athos looked about the courtyard. It was empty and quiet. The hounds were probably out with the hunters. He wondered if Reynald was out too. His keen ears picked up the weak sounds of distress coming from one of the kitchens off the courtyard. Silently, he pushed the door open.

"No, please stop!" It was a young girl's voice and its owner was struggling in the lecherous grasp of Grevaise. He had one of his meaty hands rammed down the girl's bodice and was groping her young breasts with relish. The other was groping under her skirts.

"Unhand her, you cur!" Athos snapped and reached for his sword. Grevaise growled and glanced up at the sound. The girl made full use of the distraction to escape from her assailant. Heedless of her tears and torn bodice, the girl fled past Athos for the safety of the courtyard. Grevaise made as if to reach for his own dagger but thought the better of it.

"You're a man of the world too. You should know the charms of country maids…" he tried to laugh off his attack on the girl but Athos was not so easily persuaded.

"You would seduce the maidservants of your host under his own roof?"

"Come on, she's not working here. Comte Reynald has no maidservants here except for that old crone who tends to his crippled son." Grevaise held up his hands in an attempt to placate the seething Athos.

"Each to his own, eh? You're no saint yourself. Don't you musketeers like pretty young boys like that D'Artagnan…" the rest of the man's words were cut off by a punch to the face. The men were soon wrestling on the kitchen floor.

"La Fere! What is the meaning of this?" It was Comte Reynald's imperious voice which stopped Athos from landing a kick to his opponent's gut. The comte was dressed in his hunting clothes and seemed to have returned from the activity. With him was Lady Isabelle. The baying of hounds announced the return of the rest of the hunters. The comte threw a pair of dead hares onto the table.

"I knew your father, and he would've expected better behaviour from you, Olivier," Comte Reynald stated. He did not bother even acknowledging the huntsman's presence. Lady Isabelle tried to tend to Grevaise's bruises but he only shoved her concern away and stumbled out into the courtyard. Athos hoped the girl had long made her getaway.

"Grevaise is a cur who cannot be trusted to behave as a human being."

"I know. What did he do this time? Beat up the stable-boy or insult your horse?" Comte Reynald's tone softened a little.

"He was forcing his lecherous attentions on a girl…" Athos worded his reply the best he could.

"Oh, the girl probably seduced him…" the older man shrugged indifferently. Athos was caught off-guard by the reply.

* * *

Porthos wondered how he allowed Marianne to talk him into this. He was born within city walls and grew up within them. He was not used to the country with all the animals and… He almost leapt out of his skin when a fox trotted across their path. Marianne smiled at his discomfiture. Madame D'Artagnan was too busy caring for her husband to visit the wounded Louise. Marianne thought Porthos would make a good deterrent to any trouble they might encounter due to his sheer size. Even those huntsmen would think twice, she said. Now that the sun was starting to set, they must get back to the farmstead before nightfall.

Porthos thought back to the visit. D'Artagnan, rest his soul, had saved her by sacrificing his life. Louise was young, not more than fifteen, with fair hair peering out from under the bandages on her head. They covered half her face. She had been mauled in the shoulder and face and would bear the scars of her attack if she lived. Lady Isabelle had sent nourishing food and medicines for the patient but Louise has resisted all attempts by her poor grandmother to make her eat since she learnt of D'Artagnan's death.

"She's always had her heart set on Georges… Now he's dead…" the old woman shook her head. "Her face… she'll be disfigured, poor Louise…"

Infection had set in and the girl was half-delirious. "The wolves… the leader… the wolf on two legs…" Louise murmured and fretted in her fevered half-sleep. The grandmother tried to pour a spoonful of broth into the patient's lips to no avail. "Just let me die, granny…"

That was when Porthos snapped. "Look here! D'Artagnan didn't give up his life to have you die on your poor granny!" he bellowed. Louise's eye flickered open. "So what if some wolf took off half your face… You are still alive and you can still make something of your life. Who will care for your grandmother when you're gone? Uh? Don't you dare give up on your life!" He wasn't even aware he had grabbed hold of the patient by the shoulders until Marianne pried his hands loose.

That was when they decided they had outlasted their welcome. Porthos hoped that Louise did hear what he had said and that she would recover from her injuries.

"Poor Louise… She's like the other girls killed… young, pretty, without a care in the world," Marianne said as they climbed over a stile. "She was so upset when she heard Master Georges was going to marry someone he met in Paris… She asked him to walk her to her aunt's in the next village. She told me that she was going to convince him to marry her during their walk…"

"Wait, Marianne. Are you saying that these wolves attack girls only?" Something about Marianne's account did not ring true. He had seen groups of both men and women, sometimes children, working in the fields, meadows and on the road. Surely it would be unusual for the victims to be all female. It was far too much of a coincidence.

"Now that you mention it, yes. Master Georges was the first young man killed so far since the attacks started. Normally wolves take the little ones when deer is scarce during winter months. The deer and boars are plentiful here. And there were few reports of sheep or lambs lost."

"Is it just a few attacks?" Surely the king would not send his huntsmen out for the odd case of wolves attacking peasants in some corner of the kingdom.

Marianne sucked in a breath before continuing. "Twelve dead, including Master Georges, within the space of the last four months. We thought the hunters would stop the deaths but… It's like a curse on us..."

"Don't worry. We promise we will stop these monsters…" Porthos replied.

**Author's Notes: **

Jean-Baptiste is acting up again. Athos has a confrontation with the head huntsman in a chateau kitchen. Porthos and Marianne seem to be striking up a friendship of sorts.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer – 3 Musketeers and the characters belong to Alexander Dumas.

This is rated M for many reasons, mainly gore and violence, with some disturbing imagery.

**Chapter 4**

Jean-Baptiste held the bundle of fur close under his shirt. It would never do for him to be caught. He wished Master Georges were still around. Master Bertrand had told a tale he heard about young soldier in distant Greece and a fox cub. The boy had been surprised by his commanding officer and stuffed the live cub down his shirt to hide it. The fox ate into the boy's belly and killed him. Thankfully, the creature he held under his shirt was only content to lick his skin. Safely in Georges' room, the boy dropped his precious cargo onto the bed. The wolf cub was the size of a small cat, the runt of the litter no doubt. Perhaps it was being the runt that spared it the poison which befell its siblings and mother.

Driven by grief over his granddaughter's death earlier in the year, old Hubert had stumbled over a wolf den by chance. Instead of informing the royal hunters, the old woodcutter had taken a dead lamb and poisoned it before dumping it within reach of the den. It was almost the last thing the old man did before he was killed by a falling tree limb. The wolves had partaken of the poisoned meat and perished. Yet the killings continued. Jean-Baptiste, who enjoyed walking the woods alone, had found the living pup and taken it home. The large barn cat was willing to nurse him for a while but now she was getting suspicious of her unusually large ward.

He had prepared a wooden bow lined with straw under the bed. That would serve as a den for the pup. The door would be locked and windows fastened. He would sneak table scraps and perhaps any young hares he might hunt home for the wolf. First he needed a name for the creature. "Georges…" Jean-Baptiste whispered into the wolf's ears. The cub whimpered softly and licked his nose. Master Georges would understand.

* * *

"No hide or hair of those beasts…" Grevaise slurped his wine and leered at his hostess. Athos deemed it a miscalculation on his host's part inviting the head huntsman to sit at the table. Lady Isabelle looked to her father.

"Papa, may I be excused to go read to my brother, please?" she asked sweetly. The comte simply waved her aside. The young woman fled the dining hall.

"Grevaise, my colleague the Comte de la Fere would like to join the hunt tomorrow…"

"So long as he doesn't get in our way… Most nobles don't have the faintest idea of how to hunt," Grevaise belched. Sensing his host's displeased glare on him, the man hastily backtracked. "No, I meant you no offence… Your grandfather was the Master of the Royal Hunt in the time of good King Henri…"

"Monsieur de la Fere and his two companions will be joining us tomorrow. See to it that they are equipped for the hunt." Grevaise's flattery did not achieve the desired effect on their host.

"Monsieur… about the messenger…" Athos ventured. Comte Reynald nodded.

"Yes, yes. I have a man who will be leaving for Paris with some letters of business for me in two days' time. Have the letters ready and he will send them with mine. Come join me for a glass of wine after dinner… we must talk, alone…" The host waved a manservant over to clear the dishes. Dinner was over.

* * *

Aramis rubbed his weary eyes. He had finally put together the words for breaking the news as gently and as concise as he could to both Monsieur de Treville and poor Constance. The ink was drying and soon he would seal the letter… A thump drew his attention. It seemed to be coming from D'Artagnan's room.

For a moment, the abbe's mind was filled with tales of lost souls and haunted rooms. He took the candle and hurried over. He tried the door but found it locked. "D'Artagnan?" He peered through the keyhole. The room was in darkness. He listened and waited. Further down the hall, he could hear D'Artagnan's parents talking in a hushed conversation. Marianne was yelling at the boy Jean-Baptiste over some missing ham. Dinner plates were being cleared as the household prepared for bed.

"Aramis? What are you doing?" Porthos asked. Aramis almost leapt out of his skin. He had not heard his approach.

"I thought I heard something in there…" The pair heard some scratching sounds.

"Maybe rats…" Porthos shrugged. "Here in the countryside the rats must be the size of cats…"

* * *

Athos had been persuaded to spend the night in the chateau. He followed his host into a cavernous hall where a fire was blazing in the hearth. Before the fire was an odd piece of furniture looking like a chair with wheels. Lady Isabelle was seated in an armchair reading to the occupant of the strange chair.

For a moment, Athos thought it was D'Artagnan seated there. The youth was of slender build, with dark hair. The lady stood up to greet her father and the youth turned to see who had ventured into his sanctuary.

"Olivier, may I introduce you to my son, Vicomte Roland…"

Close-up, the youth did not resemble D'Artagnan. He was the same age as his sister, and bore a striking, almost feminine likeness to her. The pair could not be more than eighteen. Where his sister held herself with an air of confident assertiveness, Roland was more subdued. His meekness was emphasized by the way his hands twisted helplessly in his lap. Thin legs like crooked sticks peered out from under the blanket in his lap. His hands adjusted the blankets as if he were ashamed to be seen in his disabled state. He was pale, almost ashen.

Athos nodded and murmured some polite courtesies. He tried not to stare at the boy's crippled limbs. He let his gaze run over the multitude of portraits lining the walls of the room. There was one of the children when they were younger. Lady Isabelle and her brother were standing dressed in hunting clothes with their horses behind them and their hounds before. Isabelle held a hare while Roland held a pheasant. The hounds seemed almost wolfish, with snarling teeth. Athos wondered how the healthy boy in the portrait had ended up in such a sorry state. The family were mostly dark in their colouring and Athos found it difficult to identify which portraits were of the current comte or his father. Then one portrait took his breath away.

It was a woman's portrait. She was beautiful, with fine features and a cascade of golden tresses falling over her bosom. There was more than a passing resemblance to Lady Isabelle.

"Ah, that was my wife…" Reynald snorted when he saw Athos staring.

"I'm sorry…" The man had probably lost his wife as there was little sign of a comtess in the home.

"Sorry? She should have died sooner! The ingrate, harlot… the cursed Jezebel's no doubt living it up in Florence as we speak!"

"Father, please!" Roland protested. "She is our mother after all…" The youth's words died off when his father glared at him.

"Forgive me my outburst…" Comte Reynald composed himself and reached for the wine his daughter had poured out. Her face was an inscrutable mask while Roland was clearly distressed.

"Papa…" the youth whimpered. Comte Reynald made a sound between disgust and disdain. The carpet beneath Roland's chair seemed darker. He had wet himself. "S-sorry…" Lady Isabelle was on her knees and hands sponging up the mess with her handkerchief the best she could.

"Get him out of my sight!" the Comte bellowed at his daughter. Isabelle blanched but she stumbled to her feet. She grabbed hold of the wooden handle attached to her brother's chair and started shoving it towards the door. It was slow going as the chair was heavy. Athos went to help her. _Don't…_ Isabelle threw him a glance which froze him in his tracks. A wheel had broken and Roland's chair was stuck between two floorboards. Realizing their predicament, Isabelle called out to a pair of passing manservants. Between the pair, they lifted Roland bodily out of his chair. The youth bit his lip to keep from crying out in pain. Isabelle motioned them towards the couch.

"Come, I shouldn't show you this…" Putting his arm around Athos' shoulder, Reynald steered his guest away from the room and his children. "There is a nice vintage I received from Spain I'd like you to sample…" Athos did not speak. Comte Reynald had not raised a finger to help his son or daughter.

"Are you wondering how my son ended up crippled?" Comte Reynald asked. He did not wait for Athos to reply.

"The little scamp got thrown by a horse whilst riding to meet a lady against my expressed wishes. Of course she didn't give a hoot about him. The last thing I heard, she was off to Paris as lady-in-waiting to Her Royal Majesty. After Roland got himself crippled, who'd want to wed him, eh? Makes me sick to look at him. A curse on that blond bitch…"

"You still have a daughter…" Athos fidgeted awkwardly. They had arrived at a cellar room lined with shelved bottles of wine.

"Pah! Isabelle? She's only a girl and who'd want her with a crippled twin brother in tow? I'd be lucky if I can convince a convent to take her off my hands. She's turning out to be as much a temptress as her mother…" The alcohol had unleashed a flood of venom from the comte. He lashed out at his ex-wife, children and the unnamed woman he believed responsible for his son's condition. "If you fancy my daughter, Olivier, take her! Bed her! I'm not stopping you should you decide to carry her off as your wife or whore… and good luck to keeping her! Have you ever met a woman and gave your heart to her, only to have it tossed away like some trash?"

"Yes," Athos scowled and memories of Milady came to mind. "But she's dead now…"

"By your hand?" his host poured out a glass of wine for Athos. "Good for you!"

"Close enough…" Athos wonder if he had ever lashed out at Milady in the manner Comte Reynald did in his drunkenness. He could not recall. He took solace in his wine solitarily, the anger and acrid taste of betrayal quietly seething beneath the surface. Surely he had not spoken to his comrades like so… He sipped the wine. It was a poor vintage which turned his stomach.

Athos thought of his own son, young Raoul, left in the care of kindly servants back home on his estate. Part of him empathized with his host. If anything should happen, God forbid, to his son, Athos would make the person responsible pay. If Raoul were to be crippled, he would never ever find him a burden. If he had a daughter, he would love and cherish her as he would a son. Comte Reynald's rants had tapered off as the drink took effect. Athos idly wondered how his son was faring back home. Perhaps he should take a vacation. Drop by for a few days… He had already missed a few milestones in his son's life, like his first word- "Mama", directed at the cook, and his first steps, taken while his father was engaged in on a mission in Lyons.

He yawned. It was late… A manservant silently entered the room to remove the empty bottles and glasses. He left the snoring Comte Reynald alone in the chair he had fallen asleep in.

"Would Monsieur like to be shown to his room?" the manservant enquired. When Athos grunted his assent, the man led him to a bedchamber with a large four-poster bed.

**Author's Notes: **

I love the irony in having Jean-Baptiste hide a wolf pup in D'Artagnan's room and Porthos mistaking the sounds for rats. All's not well in Comte Reynald's household. At least he has managed to get him and his friends in the hunting party.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer – 3 Musketeers and the characters belong to Alexander Dumas.

This is rated M for many reasons, mainly gore and violence, with some disturbing imagery. And sex? My Muse is daring me to write a bedroom scene involving Athos and a woman. Maybe I need to tone stuff down a bit… Someone once told me Dumas' original works are a lot spicier than the toned-down English translations. So here goes.

**Chapter 5**

In the guestroom of Comte Reynald's castle, Athos drowsed somewhere between the half-dreams he had fallen into after partaking generously of the bottle of fine wine so thoughtfully left by the bed.

"_We'll see you soon, scamp!" Porthos ruffled D'Artagnan's hair. They laughed and joked, biding each other goodbye. They had just gone off patrol. Aramis and Porthos were heading for Madame Esme's brothel for some rest and relaxation as was their habit on Fridays. He and D'Artagnan would return home to tend to their horses… Athos frowned. D'Artagnan had turned away from the usual path they took and was heading down an impossibly dark alley, into the unknown. _

"_D'Artagnan!" Athos hollered and ran after his young friend. The boy was walking slowly, almost as if sleepwalking, away from him. Yet he could never catch up, no matter how hard he ran. "D'Artagnan! Wait! Don't go!" The boy's pace faltered as if hearing Athos' pleas. Silently, he turned to face the older musketeer. Athos gasped. He was looking at D'Artagnan as he had seen him in his coffin, no, worse. Limbs mangled and entrails dragging like blood-smeared ropes… Athos' stomach turned. Surely it would be a mercy if the young man weren't alive. _

"_A-Athos… I l-lost Constance's ring…" the poor boy wailed and held out mangled stumps where hands had once been. Every word was a gasp of pain._

Athos started awake. For a few moments, his entire world was his gasping breath and thumping heart. The nightmare's hold on him yet to fade, he shivered. He was in an alien place, away from his closest friends, or perhaps D'Artagnan's tormented ghost shared his room even now. The hairs on the nape of his neck stood on end. His soldier's instincts kicked in, warning him he was not alone in that darkened room. He froze, recalling he had left his sword on a chair across the room.

The presence was very close. He cursed himself silently for having drawn the bed-curtains. _Had he locked the door before retiring?_ Every muscle was tensed. His ears pricked up at the slightest sound. If only he knew who, or what was out there beyond the velvety drapes. He watched in silence. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness. The intruder's footsteps approached. The interloper did not hold a light but judging from the steady tread, it was no stranger to the room. Athos estimated one intruder. He shoved himself as quietly as he could against the bedstead.

There was a rustle of fabric hitting the floor. A pale hand parted the drapes. It was then that the musketeer pounced. Athos seized the hand and pulled its owner face-first across the mattress. There was a muffled shriek of alarm. Athos almost released his grasp at that sound. _A woman?_ He reminded himself that women could and have proven to be as dangerous as men. In the dark, he pinned his captive down with one knee and ran his hands over her body for any weapons.

To his horror, he realised that she was butt-naked. Cursing his luck, he threw back the drapes, a flood of moonlight poured in, illuminating the captive's features.

"Lady Isabelle?" Athos' eyes darted to the door. He had heard of such tricks before, used by nobles saddled with unmarriageable daughters unwilling to cloister them in a convent. An unsuspecting guest rendered stupefied by wine or drugs and the maiden slipped between the covers. When the deed was done, the angry father would burst through the door demanding his daughter's honour be restored by speedy marriage.

The lady gasped, naked bosom heaving, dark hair tousled, her skin was a pearly white… Athos bit back a curse and scooped the discarded nightdress off the floor and flung it at her. Instinctively, she caught it and covered her bosom modestly. "Get dressed and think twice the next you feel like sneaking up on a guest," Athos scowled and his eyes darted back to the door.

"You can rest assured my father will not be calling on you. He knows nothing of this," Lady Isabelle replied. She threw the garment back onto the floor. Seemingly unbothered by her nakedness, she walked up to him and placed her arms around his waist. She was a bold one, bold enough to match Milady. Athos had to grant her that.

"Then, madame, do you make a habit of crawling into bed with your father's guests?" Athos gasped as he felt her fingers brushing against his chest through his thin shirt. He had been without a woman for a while since Milady. Now his body was reacting to Lady Isabelle's closeness and teasing fingers. Animal lust sparred with his better judgement and was winning. Athos knew he should run, leave, make some excuse to leave the chateau…

"Only those worthy and honourable… Comte de la Fere, I'd give anything to get away from here," Lady Isabelle breathed into his ear. Pressing her body flush against his, she kissed him on the lips. _God, she's beautiful… _She kissed him again. Reason flew out the window then.

* * *

Athos awoke to a grey, sober dawn. The first thought that entered his mind was- D'Artagnan's dead. He rolled over and saw his bedmate. Still asleep, she looked so vulnerable and childlike. Lady Isabelle yawned, stretched and awoke. The covers fell off her pearly white body, now marred in places by emerging bruises where he had grappled with her. A pang of guilt stabbed Athos. He must do the honourable thing by her. Ask the Comte Reynald for her hand in marriage. Given what he had seen of Reynald's opinion of his daughter, he did not expect any protest from her father.

It was most awkward at the breakfast table. Comte Reynald was nursing a hangover in his room. Lady Isabelle's twin brother gave shy glances at both Athos and his sister, as if he had guessed at what transpired the night before. Isabelle had ordered the servants to carry Roland to the dining room so that he might join them. Comte Reynald had granted his permission for Athos and his musketeer friends to join the hunt. Three sturdy steeds have been kindly provided by the Comte.

* * *

Athos had hunted before with his father. Porthos, on the other hand, was city-bred and regarded the hunters and hounds with suspicion. Aramis hardly had any prior experience hunting either. They felt out of place among the hunters. Grevaise scowled at them as they approached. The chief huntsman looked as if he were planning on how to avenge himself on Athos and his friends for interfering in the hunt. The trio did not need to wait long.

"Watch out!" Porthos shouted a warning. The hunters had flushed out a terrified hare. Aramis' horse was already uneasy from the constant baying of the hounds and the nips to its hocks. The accursed hounds seemed to have taken a shine to the white socks of the steed. The horse reared and the musketeer hung on for dear life.

"ARAMIS!" Athos shouted as his friend fell out of the saddle and into a bramble-patch. The hunters laughed as Aramis floundered, trying to get free of the thorns. Swearing curses, Porthos and Athos hurried to rescue their comrade. Aramis' clothes were torn to shreds and bloodied from his numerous scratches when they finally extricated him from the thorns.

"Go home! We don't need you here!" one of the hunters hollered. Aramis scowled. His patience with the hunters had worn thin. He cursed colourfully and reached for his sword.

"No," Athos clapped his hand over Aramis' shoulder and shook his head. "The abbe will be going back to offer counsel to the victims' families…" he said out loud for the benefit of the hunters. Aramis' cross had fallen out from his shirt-collar and it did not go unnoticed. A few of the hunters, being of more religious bent, immediately came forward, shamefaced, to hold the reins of Aramis' horse. Thus Aramis departed from the hunting party with his ego bruised but without coming to blows.

The morning's hunt was unsuccessful. When they broke for the midday meal, Porthos fell into conversation easily with a pair of brothers among the huntsmen. Soon they were chatting like old friends. Left to his own devices, Athos sought the lonely shade of an oak and a wineskin. He had no mood for company.

Lady Isabelle had willingly given herself to him and for what purposes besides getting away from her father? Athos wondered if there was some other reason. Had she some engagement she was desperate to flee from? There was still the matter of the wolves that killed poor D'Artagnan.

"The Comte!" A murmur ran through the resting men and a good number of them leapt to their feet. Perched on his fine stallion, the nobleman trotted genially into the midst of them. A brace of wild hares hung from his saddle. He was accompanied by his daughter on a grey horse. She was breathtakingly lovely in her hunting habit of black and red. She wore a hood and cloak over her hair.

Lady Isabelle avoided looking Athos in the eye. Oily Grevaise started scraping and fawning but Comte Reynald had little time for him. Instead he ran his gaze over the gathering until it fell on Athos. For a moment Athos thought the Comte might shoot him in that rifle he had slung over his shoulder. The Comte only shrugged.

"Milord, forgive me for my impudence, but surely it is not safe for you and the lady…" Porthos tipped his hat to the fair Isabelle at this point. "To be about unaccompanied with the beasts…"

"Monsieur, we assure you that we know these parts like the back of our hands. Besides… we are hunting game. We prefer to keep the party small and private…" Reynald chuckled and continued on his way with Isabelle on his heels.

_Where're their hounds?_ Athos frowned. Most nobles ventured on their hunts with hounds to chase and run down game – be it deer, boar or hare. Hunts were mainly social events for the nobility, full of pomp and pageantry. Or perhaps the Comte was one of those who enjoyed hunting for the sake of it.

* * *

Aramis sighed wearily. He had walked into the farmhouse to find Madame D'Artagnan in a hysterical weeping fit and her poor husband trying to calm her down. It had taken a full hour and all of his training from the seminary to counsel the bereaved parents. They thanked him afterwards, calling him abbe. _Abbe._ He wondered if he did indeed have a calling to be a man of the cloth instead of a musketeer. A few days ago he was content to be a soldier. Now the call of the church was gnawing at him like a puppy with a shoe.

It took a while before he realised he had entered the deceased's room instead of his own.

"What the…" Aramis bit back a blasphemy on the edge of his tongue. There was a small dog sleeping on D'Artagnan's bed. _No, the muzzle was too long, the paws too large… It looked more like… _

"A wolf! There's a wolf in D'Artagnan's room!" The startled pup leapt onto his paws and growled menacingly. Aramis tossed his hat, which he had been holding in his hands at the little beast. Big mistake. The pup bounded clear of the missile and sank his fangs into Aramis' exposed forearm.

"Jesus! Mary and Joseph!"

**Author's Notes: **

Possible Athos x OC in the works? Feel I'm running about in circles like a dog after its own tail. My mistake? Killing D'Artagnan. Something feels missing. Should have tossed someone else to the wolves instead.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer – 3 Musketeers and the characters belong to Alexander Dumas.

This is rated M for many reasons, mainly gore and violence, with some disturbing imagery.

**Chapter 6**

"A wolf! What were you thinking?" Marianne smacked Jean-Baptiste on the head with the duster she had been using to clean the furniture. The wolf pup growled but quieted when the boy shushed him with a hand in the fur of the nape of his neck. Aramis' curses and shouts had brought the entire household running, including the little beast's master. Now Aramis' right arm was bandaged and ached like the blazes. The musketeer was thankful he could use his left hand as well to hold a sword.

"He's just scared…" the boy protested.

"He's a wild animal, Jean," old Monsieur D'Artagnan replied grimly. Madame D'Artagnan was glaring daggers at the beast. She was not pleased in the least to find her son's shirt chewed up by the pup, or that Jean had been stealing food from the kitchen to feed his pet. That was not counting the mess the wolf left under the bed.

"Bring that creature out, we cannot allow it to live…" Monsieur D'Artagnan said solemnly.

"But Georges meant no harm…" Jean-Baptiste hugged the pup close and the pup licked the boy's face as if he were a friendly dog. "I'll teach him to be good…"

"Georges? You named that little beast after my son?" Madame D'Artagnan spluttered before dissolving into another fit of tears. Marianne smacked the boy a second time across the shoulder. She then went to comfort her mistress.

"Jean! This is no puppy. It's a wolf and wolves cannot be trained like a dog!" old D'Artagnan shouted. The old man looked as if he were on the verge of apoplexy. Aramis hastened to support him as he staggered, gasping.

"But Master Roland told me the old Comte had trained wolves for the old king! It can be done!" the boy leapt to his feet and fled with the wolf loping at his heels like some shepherd's dog.

"Jean-Baptiste! You get rid of that creature before we let you back in, you hear?" Marianne shouted but it was doubtful her words were heeded.

"Trained wolves? Master Roland must be pulling the lad's leg…" Aramis muttered.

D'Artagnan's father shook his head. "No, there is some truth to that tale… Comte Reynald's father was said to have bred his hounds with wolves. He later trained the wolf-dogs as hunting hounds and presented them before the old king. However, it was this which brought about the family's disgrace. On the first hunt, the wolves ran wild and savaged a page, killing the lad. His late Majesty ordered the creatures to be destroyed and the old Comte to resign his post as Master of the Hunt."

"Wolves as hunting dogs? But they'd be unmanageable!"

"The old comte was a bit of an adventurer. He brought back a wife from a distant land east of the duchy of Lorraine and the Rhine. They say people there hunt with wolves instead of hounds…" Monsieur D'Artagnan allowed his words to trail off as if something had just struck him. Then he shook his head slightly as if the thought disturbed him and he refused to acknowledge it.

* * *

A full day of hunting had nothing to show for it but sore muscles and frayed tempers. The Comte sent word to the hunters and invited them back to his home for dinner. Comte Reynald toasted the hunters for their efforts and wine flowed freely. Porthos was too glad to accept the offer as a day of vigorous activity had whetted his appetite. Athos wondered where Lady Isabelle was. He had to ask her father for her hand in… He toyed with his food before pushing the barely nibbled bread roll aside.

"Athos, are you feeling alright?" Porthos asked. "You haven't touched your wine…" That was unlike the Athos he knew. Perhaps he was mourning D'Artagnan… Porthos pushed aside his plate and the remaining food on it. Athos stood up. He was sitting at their host's right while the head huntsman sat across from Athos.

"Sir, I need a word with you… about Lady Isabelle."

Porthos gaped when Athos haltingly asked their host for his daughter's hand. Their host's face darkened. He glowered at Athos but did not speak. It was Porthos who exploded.

"ATHOS! What's wrong with you? We barely buried D'Artagnan and you're courting some lady?" Porthos bellowed. Comte Reynald smiled grimly.

"Olivier, we're afraid we must disappoint you. Isabelle has been promised to Monsieur Grevaise," their host said aloud. The clatter of a dropped platter and a shriek sounded at his words. There was a flash of red as Isabelle fled from the doorway where she had overheard her father's words. Grevaise only licked his chops and gazed lecherously at the direction in which the lady had fled. Athos rose to his feet and started after the lady.

"She's mine, you heard the Comte…" Grevaise hissed drunkenly as he blocked Athos' way. Athos glared at the much larger huntsman before throwing a punch at his jaw, flooring him. At this slight to their comrade, the rest of the huntsmen leapt from their seats to avenge him.

"Athos!" Porthos yelled a warning. Athos deftly sidestepped a young man coming at him with a knife. Porthos grabbed his chair and threw it across the table at another attacker. Then he was being throwing a hunter off his own back. The dinner disintegrated into a medley.

"Stop! STOP! Stop all this! Papa! You must stop this!" A young voice called out. It was Roland. The cripple was in his strange chair, being pushed by a servant. "Stop this or I'll tell them!"

"Tell what, boy?" the comte's voice bellowed. Sensing the rage in his tone, the brawlers froze. The comte slowly but wrathfully approached his son, who quivered helplessly in his chair.

A violent box to the ear knocked Roland out of his chair. The servant turned and fled like a terrified hare. The young man tried to pull himself away from the kicks that followed. Fearing he was going to kill the boy, both Porthos and Athos ran forward to restrain their host.

"For the love of God, he's your son!" Porthos grappled with the comte.

"This weakling is no son of mine!"

Athos made use of the distraction to scoop Roland into his arms and away from his father. "The second door down the corridor… she'll be there…" Roland whispered into Athos' ear.

* * *

Isabelle was indeed in the room Roland had indicated. She was sobbing in a corner and did not notice their entry until Roland called out to her. The room was apparently used to store old furniture and Athos easily found a chair to deposit Roland in. "Mademoiselle…" Athos coughed awkwardly. Isabelle dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve.

"It would appear my father has decided for me. Go, monsieur… leave now…" Lady Isabelle said. She grabbed a cloth-covered bucket from the floor and ran out.

"Wait!" Athos started after her but he slipped on a dark patch on the flagstones. He rubbed his sore bottom and touched the stain curiously. It felt sticky and showed red on his fingers. He sniffed at it. There was no doubt about it. It was blood.

"It's food for the hounds," Roland explained. "My sister feeds them herself… Maybe she'll show them to you if you ask…"

Athos frowned. _Hadn't the huntsmen fed their hounds earlier? Weren't the family's hounds among the huntsmen's too?_

"Athos? Where are you?" Porthos' voice cut into his thoughts.

"Go join your friend. I'll be fine… She'll be back after feeding the hounds…" Roland whispered hoarsely. The young man leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes as if going to sleep. Athos hastened to join his friend.

"Athos, his Lordship wants us out of his house within the hour," Porthos grated.

* * *

The rain had come down in a torrent outside the shutters. Aramis was unable to sleep. He had been seeking solace in the Scriptures as the last of the D'Artagnan household retired for the night. D'Artagnan's father had taken to his bed. A sullen Jean-Baptiste had sulked in well after dinner was done. Aramis suspected the boy had not gotten rid of his pet. There was a suspicious bulge in the sack he carried. Jean-Baptiste fled the hall when Marianne came along with an armful of clothes she had mended. Now Aramis' eyes burned and the words of the Gospel seemed little more than gibberish to him. _How could a merciful God allow young D'Artagnan to be taken in such a cruel manner?_ Finding the room suddenly stifling from the burning lamp, he rose and walked over to the window. He threw it open for some air. The light from his window fell on a pair of familiar figures below it.

"Porthos! What on earth are you doing standing in the rain? Athos! You, too?" Aramis exclaimed as he recognised the beleaguered pair standing in the yard. No one else was awake to unbar the door, so Aramis took the lamp and hurried downstairs to get his friends out of the rain.

"Comte Reynald threw us out," Athos grated as he wrung water from his cloak. "Porthos' horse went lame and we had to walk…"

"All the way from the keep?" It was a good distance, and in the rain and dark…

"Yes, my horse went lame and our torch went out when the rain started. And why's there a dog tied up in the stable where we put our horses?" Porthos sneezed vigorously. They were chilled to the bone.

The sneezing fit seemed to have roused Marianne. The cook peered out of the kitchen sleepily. She exclaimed at the sight of the sopping wet visitors and immediately set about stirring the embers of the hearth back to life.

"Goodness! You'd catch your death of cold. Get out of your wet clothes, quickly!" she started tugging at Porthos' boot as soon as he had settled down on a stool. The boot refused to budge. "Just get undressed while I go fetch some towels and dry clothes…" Giving up, Marianne started for the kitchens.

"Fetch us some mulled wine too," Porthos added as an afterthought.

"How did you get thrown out? I thought he invited you to stay…" Aramis queried cautiously. He could sense the rage rolling off Athos in silent waves.

"Our friend here asked the comte for his daughter's hand and the Comte was not amused…" Porthos replied and yanked off a boot.

"He's handing her over to that cur Grevaise…" Athos seethed and let his cloak fall to the floor.

"Then we stopped the Comte from beating young Roland to a pulp…" Porthos shrugged and pulled off his other boot.

"The poor boy's his own son…" Athos grated as he tore off his vest.

"But I wonder what the boy wanted to tell us… and what the Comte's hiding from us… Oh, look who's here," Porthos grinned broadly and took the tankard Marianne held out to him.

"The Comte's been beating Master Roland again?" Marianne handed a towel to Athos, who had already stripped to his breeches. "He's been hard on that boy since the quarrel… not that is my place to gossip…"

"Why does he seem to hate his own children so much?" Porthos mused.

"Well, they say Master Roland took a fancy to a girl his father did not approve of and his sister covered for them. When the Comte found out…" Marianne paused and added a log to the fire. "I heard this from a woman who used to cook at the keep. The Comte blames all women for his misfortune, especially fair-haired women, after his Comtess left him and the children. The girl Roland was fond of was also fair of hair. Celine-Marie du Pearre. She was not actually a noble even if her poor grandmamma was once a baronne."

"Whatever happened to the girl?" Aramis asked. He was a hopeless romantic at heart and this tale of young love thwarted tugged at his heart.

"Well, she disappeared soon after Master Roland's accident. Madame Marie claimed that she went to Paris to serve the queen, up to her dying day. But others say she took off with a Spanish lover she had been seeing behind Roland's back. Old Marie has many bad days when she didn't know where she was. No one has seen Celine since shortly after Roland's accident. They say the comte was so mad with both his children he had their favourite hunting hounds killed. That was well before the wolves started attacking. Doubt the wolves had anything to do with Celine's disappearance," Marianne chattered. She had helped herself to the warm wine too and the colour rose prettily in her cheeks.

"Marianne, you said the girls attacked were all fair of hair, like this Celine-marie?"

"Yes, Annette, Louise, even the Barrette twins. All pretty things…" Marianne yawned.

"He had their hounds killed and yet she went to feed the hounds…" Athos muttered thoughtfully. Perhaps he should ask the lady to show him their hounds.

**Author's Notes: **

Some idle chit-chat by the fireside might lead the Inseparables in a new direction.


	7. Chapter 7

The D'Artagnan Romances and the characters are the creation of Alexandre Dumas pere. They are now in the public domain.

This is rated M for many reasons, mainly gore and violence, with some disturbing imagery. Warning for rape scene. Nothing too graphic.

**Chapter 7**

She never expected him to come to her that very night. She had begged him but he only laughed at her protests and pleas. Her head was still spinning from the violent blow which had stunned her enough for him to rip the clothes from her body, throw her upon the bed and claim her for his own. Grevaise was no gentle lover. His coarse hands mauled her tender breasts and his fetid kisses smothered her. She trembled at the lewdness he slobbered into her ears. When he took her so roughly, the pain was immense, even more so than when she had surrendered her maidenhood.

She wanted to be away from him but he was far too strong for her. How she regretted not having defied her father and running out after the other. The bed creaked with her assailant's every grunt and heave of his buttocks. Her father would be too far gone with drink to care what befell her and her brother was a cripple who could not come to her aid even if her screams roused him from his slumber. All she would do was weep silently and endure the assault on her body by her soon-to-be husband.

She wondered if this was some punishment for her sins. Over the shoulder of the rutting Grevaise, she thought she spied the bedroom door glide open an inch or two.

* * *

"_Aramis, do you see Constance? Where is she?" D'Artagnan was fretting beside him on the tower as they watched the Queen and her ladies file out into the palace gardens far below. They were assigned to be on guard duty within the palace, a most rare occasion. Most of their duties were involved patrols in the city. _

"_We're too high up, D'Artagnan…" Aramis grinned. He could only see the colourful gowns of the women and the tops of their heads as they passed below him. He turned to reach for his spyglass. _

"_Constance is the only lady-in-waiting with fair hair… the rest are all redheads or brunettes, I thought you knew that already…" D'Artagnan's teasing voice sounded so distant. Aramis turned. He was alone on the roof._

"Georges, no! You're not allowed in the house!"

Aramis awoke to find a wolf pup sniffing at his beard. With a surprised yelp, the pup leapt off Aramis' chest. Jean-Baptiste grabbed the struggling pup amidst barely coherent apologies. The outraged pup clawed and nipped at his owner. He had fallen asleep on a bench by the fire and no one had thought to wake him up. Porthos and Athos were already awake and partaking of some bread with cheese.

"Jean! I told you to get rid of that wolf!" Marianne cried out when she came with more food for their guests and saw the pup in the boy's arms.

"Wolf? I thought that was a dog…" Porthos exclaimed. "It was acting so tame we thought it was someone's pet…" Athos remarked.

"Go fetch!" Jean-Baptiste dropped the pup on the floor, grabbed a short stick from the top of the woodpile and tossed it out the open door. The wolf pup yipped and ran after it, catching it in his jaws and worrying it like a fresh-caught rabbit. Then he ran off with the stick still in his mouth. Then the wolf saw the geese... and took after them with the stick still clamped in his jaws.

"Wait, come back!" the boy ran after his furry playmate. A gruff chuckle sounded from the stairs. Athos looked up to see D'Artagnan's father coming down the stairs with his wife.

"Perhaps we should let him keep the little monster," the older man chuckled and eased himself into a chair at the table with the help of his wife, who took her place beside him.

"Monsieur, we are most sorry but we might have to impose on your household for a while," Athos spoke to their host. He reached for his purse.

"Please, the pleasure is ours, to repay the kindness and care you have shown my dear boy in Paris…" D'Artagnan Sr. replied and pushed away the money Athos was on the verge of handing him to pay for their food and board.

Marianne clucked her tongue in disapproval. "Should accept the gold, monsieur, to pay for the food this big boy puts away…" She plopped another platter of cheese and bread before Porthos, who muttered his hearty thanks.

"Athos, we were talking about young Roland's lady love going to Paris to be a lady-in-waiting…" Aramis sat down next to his friend at the table. Their conversation with Marianne the night before was still fresh in his mind. "As I recall, there were no other fair-haired ladies-in-waiting besides Constance… It may not mean anything but that Celine ran off with someone else…" He paused. His letter might have reached Paris by now and he wondered how poor Constance would react to the ill news.

"Now, that's very odd… Madame Marie received letters from her granddaughter in Paris until her death. Her eyes weren't too good so she had me read some of them to her, when Lady Isabelle wasn't around…" Madame D'Artagnan remarked. "Celine might be a bit flighty but she'd never neglect her grandmother… We thought it odd she never came back even though Lady Isabelle sent her word when Marie took a turn for the worse."

"Isabelle?" Athos pondered if he should risk incurring Comte Reynald's wrath upon not only their heads but those of the comte's own children as well. He had to return to the keep and find Isabelle. Aramis was starting on his breakfast after having said grace. Porthos was getting started on his second wedge of goat cheese.

"Monsieur D'Artagnan!" a farmhand came running into the house, trudging mud from the fields in his wake. "T-the T-there has been another attack!"

"Good God! Which poor girl this time?" Marianne exclaimed.

"N-no… not a girl… It's Grevaise the huntsman…" the farmhand replied.

* * *

The body or what remained of it was strewn in a field left fallow, a short distance from the keep. The huntsmen gathered in a tight knot, stunned by the grisly fate which had befallen their leader. It had been found by a shepherd who had been looking for a wayward ewe. He raised the alarm and the news had spread like wildfire. The villagers gawked at the sight from a safe distance as the trio trotted up on their horses.

Hoof beats caused the trio to turn and look back the way they had come. It was Jean-Baptiste. He was perched atop a skittish Buttercup with the wolf pup loping about the mare's hocks. The mare was not amused by the pup's antics and dealt him a kick to the haunches which sent the hapless canine into a ditch. Porthos cursed under his breath. They did not need someone recognizing the pup as a wolf. The boy managed to rein the mare in before she trampled on the pup.

"Boy, you stay here…" Athos ordered. Jean-Baptiste shook his head as he dismounted. The wolf pup shook himself off and came to his master's side. No one else seemed to notice the unusual canine among the hounds and farm dogs present.

"I was there when they brought Master Georges in. I was there when they found Susanne Barrett and Angeline Manott." The stubborn lad replied.

"Merciful Lord…" Aramis murmured and crossed himself. Athos noticed Jean-Baptiste turn a shade paler. The pup sniffed at a suspicious lump of flesh and whimpered, trotting back behind their boots. The corpse was lying on its back. The trunk of the body had been ripped open, the limbs ravaged and entrails scattered. The throat had been savaged so badly Grevaise was almost decapitated. The crows had already pecked out his eyes. The wet earth must have soaked up the blood like a sponge.

There was something wrong about the corpse… Aramis stared at the scene and tried to make sense of it.

"What was he doing in his shirt with his breeches about his knees? Having a late-night piss in a muddy field?" It was Porthos who voiced Aramis' doubts. There were large paw prints around the corpse, clearly imprinted in the mud.

"So my daughter is to be a widow before she's wed…" Comte Reynald strode up, pushing past the huntsmen and red-nosed from drink. "Move him into my store and send for a priest… God, he reeks…" The comte spun on his heel and returned in the direction of the keep. The deceased's comrades immediately set to work fashioning a crude bier.

"Look here," Aramis called his friends' attention to a rut on in the mud. There was an identical rut next to it. They were most likely the marks left by a wheelbarrow. However, there was no way of knowing where the tracks came from as the milling spectators had churned the dirt road into a mire.

"Perhaps Georges can help…" Jean-Baptiste set his wolf down beside the track. The pup sniffed at it, whimpered and plodded back behind Jean-Baptiste's ankles.

"Looks like your pup is not much help…" Porthos shrugged. "Back to the farm?"

"To the keep. I have to see Lady Isabelle…" Athos declared.

"Perhaps we can get a better look at the body as well…" Aramis added.

* * *

Mingling with the hunters and servants, the musketeers managed to enter the keep without Comte Reynald's notice. They left Jean-Baptiste to tie up their horses while Athos sought out Isabelle.

"My sister is ill and does not wish to receive any visitors…" Roland said quietly. They found the young man reading a book in the yard where some servant had left him in his chair.

"Has a physician been sent for?" Athos asked. Roland shrugged without giving an answer and resumed his reading. Athos decided to seek out the lady himself.

There was an old wheelbarrow by the courtyard wall. Athos did not know what drew his attention to it first. Then he saw the mud clinging onto the wheels. It was fresh. A torn piece of cloth had been caught on a seam in the wood. He cautiously removed it from the crack. All this while, he was aware of Roland's eyes tensely watching his every move. The rag was of a dirty white. It could have come from anywhere. There was a dark stain in the bottom of the wheelbarrow, the colour of dried blood.

* * *

Aramis had convinced the huntsmen to leave the room while he and Porthos washed and dressed the body. They had laid out the remains on the large kitchen table. There was extensive damage done to the lower abdomen and groin. Aramis had to admit that things looked so much neater in the medical tomes he had come across in his seminary days. _Was the liver supposed to be there? Should he try pushing the exposed bowels back in and bind everything up with bandages? _He wondered if they had been too hasty in not asking for a helper or two from the Comte's servants.

"Turn him over onto his side," Aramis instructed. "We need to get the clothes off him." Porthos grunted and rolled the body onto its side.

"Aramis, do wolves use firearms?" Porthos asked.

"Why?"

"Because it looks like someone shot him here…" Porthos pointed at a neat burn mark and hole on the victim's upper back. The ball would have pierced his heart or lungs. "Methinks our hunter was shot…"

"By wolves walking on two feet and using wheelbarrows…" Athos added as he walked into the kitchen. "The wheelbarrow used to transport the body is in the yard. Blood on it… The man was a lecher and bully in life and there are no doubt many who hated him…"

"How's your Lady Isabelle?" Porthos asked.

"According to her twin, she's not receiving any visitors today…" Athos admitted. "I'll try to call on her later…" He glanced out the window into the yard. Jean-Baptiste was showing his wolf pup to Roland. The invalid had the pup in his lap and was chatting animatedly with the farm boy.

They had a series of wolf attacks on fair-haired maidens in wolf attacks with only D'Artagnan as the odd death in the series. No, young D'Artagnan had been trying to protect a fair-haired girl when he was slain. No, Grevaise's death was the odd one out. He had been killed not by wolves but by a well-placed shot and later staged to resemble a wolf attack. _Had they loosed his own hounds on his corpse? Was it one of the other huntsmen? Or perhaps a servant in the keep? _

**Author's Notes:**

The lout Grevaise is out of the picture for good. Don't know how forensics in those days worked. Given that anatomical study was still in its infancy then, the books Aramis read were probably inaccurate. However, I am sure they would have recognised a bullet wound when they saw it.

Perhaps I should do a scene change to Paris just to show how de Treville, Constance and the others are taking the news of D'Artagnan's demise.


	8. Chapter 8

The D'Artagnan Romances and the characters are the creation of Alexandre Dumas pere. They are now in the public domain.

This is rated M for many reasons, mainly gore and violence, with some disturbing imagery.

**Chapter 8**

The stench of spilled bowel contents and rotting flesh was terrible in the heat and closed quarters of the room. The deceased's clothes were soiled with mud, blood and gore. As used as the trio were to the gory sights of the battlefield, they still had to seek the fresher air outside every ten minutes. Athos excused himself given his plans for calling on Lady Isabelle and her father. He was not going reeking of blood and faeces. It was struggle getting the mangled organs back into the belly. The slick entrails kept slipping out the gaping wound and unto their boots amidst their curses.

For the umpteenth time, poor Porthos was sent running out for fresh air. He bent over retching, trying hard not to lose the contents of his stomach. In the far end of the yard, Master Roland was playing a game of fetch with the wolf pup. Catching the musketeer's eye, he laughed and Porthos wondered if the young man was mocking him or simply enjoying his games with the pup.

"Here, this will help… It's vinegar from the kitchens…" Jean-Baptiste suggested as he held up a jug. Weakly muttering his thanks, Porthos took the vinegar from the boy and returned indoors to assist Aramis.

After soaking their handkerchiefs in vinegar, Aramis and Porthos tied them over their faces to keep the stench at bay.

"Hey, boy. This is no place for you…" Porthos protested when he saw Jean-Baptiste had followed them in.

"I was there when they dressed Master Georges… I helped…" the boy shrugged. He calmly scooped up a coil of exposed gut and tried to push it in. The stench got to him and the poor boy started gagging.

"Here…" Aramis produced an extra handkerchief from his doublet and the three continued their grim task. It would take two hours to get the body remotely presentable.

* * *

Athos managed to locate the lady's chambers on an upper floor of the keep after questioning a passing servant lad. The keep was a dreary place with many shadowy corners. The Comte's family had probably lived in it for many generations.

He rapped on the door.

"Go away, I'm not well…" Lady Isabelle protested from within.

"Mademoiselle… It's me, Olivier. I wish to speak…"

"Just go!"

Athos had little choice but to retreat from his current course of action. Isabelle sounded distraught. _Was it over Grevaise's death?_ He stared at the floor. There were some dark spots on the pale flagstones in the corridor outside Lady Isabelle's room. He paced over to an open window in the corridor and found it overlooked the courtyard. Below was a pile of manure which had been thrown out from the stables. The pile would be collected and carted off to the fields. He peered down at the narrow ledge below the window. There was a dark stain there which looked suspiciously like blood. He needed a closer look and leaned over slightly. Someone shoved him very deliberately such the hapless musketeer fell out the window.

"Merde!" Athos cursed as he fought to regain his balance to no avail. His boots left the floor and he was plummeting into a pile of manure from a height of seventy feet. He twisted his body and fought to slow his fall by grabbing at the ledges and water spouts sticking out of the castle wall. A sharp pain shot through his forearm when he collided with a water spout, but he could not hold onto it. He could not die, not with a young son and… He hit the manure pile with a loud splat.

"Olivier!" a woman was screaming his name. Then he blacked out.

When he came to, he was looking up into the worried faces of his friends.

"Athos, say something… You're alive, it's a miracle!"

"The manure broke his fall…" Aramis gingerly felt Athos' head. There was nasty bruise on his forehead but Athos' skull seemed intact. His eyes did not seem to indicate he had suffered any other head injuries.

Athos never expected to be thankful for horse manure, ever. He was sore all over from bumping against the castle walls. He moved his right arm and pain immediately shot through it.

"My arm… I think it's broken…" He could hardly move it. More alarmingly, it looked slightly crooked. Lady Isabelle was running towards them now. There were dark circles about her eyes and she was pale. Athos noticed an ugly bruise on her face, as if someone had hit her.

"Don't touch it," she warned Aramis when the musketeer tried to straighten the wounded limb. "There is a professional bone-setter who lives near here. I'll send a servant to fetch him…"

"Madame, we cannot impose…" Athos protested.

"Nonsense, Olivier. You can't possibly ride back in your current state… It will be no trouble at all…" Isabelle brushed aside his protests. Athos caught sight of the Comte and thought he fly into a rage at the sight of Lady Isabelle and him together. Instead, the comte simply walked away, leaving his daughter to deal with Athos.

* * *

_Paris._

De Treville hated this particular task, despite how many times he was obliged to carry it out. The letter had reached his office that morning and lain unnoticed with the bills and other assorted reports until noon. Part of him wanted to return to Gascony when he read of the terrible news. Bertrand was his best friend, Georges Bertrand's only child. However, his duties in Paris must take precedence. There was another who must be informed and he had spent the greater part of an hour steeling himself for the task at hand. It never got any easier. He could have entrusted the task to one of his subordinates but he knew both D'Artagnan and his fiancée. He had to deliver it in person.

He swallowed hard when he caught sight of the queen's ladies pouring out into the courtyard. Constance was among them. Her pale blond hair was unmistakable. Constance noticed him standing at beside the fountain and excused herself from the throng of chatting and giggling girls. De Treville sincerely hoped they weren't discussing Constance and D'Artagnan's wedding plans. The bad tidings he had would devastate her for sure.

"Monsieur de Treville, is something wrong?" Constance glided over. Haltingly, de Treville broke the news as gently as he could.

"NO!" Constance shrieked aloud. "It can't be!" The poor girl collapsed in a flood of tears at his feet. The captain was ill-equipped on how to deal with hysterical girls. Thankfully, the other ladies came running and all but shoved him into the fountain in their haste to have their friend safely bundled indoors with some brandy to calm her down.

* * *

_Gascony_

Jean-Baptiste was back, as were two of the musketeers and that annoying wolf pup. The old man watched as the pup made a charge at a gaggle of passing geese despite the protests of his young master. The geese hissed contemptuously at the small pup and charged after the wolf. The poor pup rapidly turned tail and ran for the safety of a haystack.

"Bertrand? What is it?" Bertrand D'Artagnan turned away from the window to find his wife hovering behind him. The ache of losing their only child was still raw. Georges had come when they had both all but resigned themselves to a childless union. There were no more after his birth, as the midwife who attended both mother and infant through the birth had predicted. _The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh… _They had been blessed with a son for almost twenty years. For that, he was grateful.

"It's nothing, Francesca," he tried to sooth his wife. She had gathered more lines in her face and grey hairs from the past few days.

"I was thinking… Do you know that they whisper in the village that these monsters are devils made flesh? They say that is why the huntsmen have had no success, even with the Comte and his daughter to guide them through these parts," Francesca said quietly. Bertrand shook his head. He had heard of the growing gossip but he was a rational man. He might believe in the gypsy ointments his wife swore by but demonic forces in the guise of wolves were another matter. They had found large paw prints at the sites of the killings. The creatures were flesh and blood.

Comte Reynald has acted eccentrically since his wife left him so heartlessly. Besides hunting and drink, there was little else he did to occupy his time. Master Roland's accident further exacerbated his drinking. Bertrand had little dealings with the keep, apart from the occasional horse or sheep supplied to the household. The comte's children were excellent hunters and riders who bred and trained their own hounds.

Perhaps he should speak with the musketeers.

"Bertrand, please be careful when you go out…" his wife touched his elbow gently.

"I will," he promised.

* * *

"I certainly hope Athos' arm heals properly…" Aramis murmured. The injury was not as bad as some he had witnessed. The bone had not pierced the skin even though it was broken without a doubt. Athos' forearm was crooked when he examined it. The physician who came to treat Athos was skilled enough to set the bones in line and put a cast of comfrey and clay on the affected limb without causing the patient too much pain. Still Athos had soundly cursed the poor man for all his trouble. It was a clean break. Give or take a few months and with proper rest and care, it should heal and Athos would be back to his usual self, fighting duels and besting the cardinal's guards in Paris.

"At least it is not us who have to keep him in bed," Porthos grimaced as he yanked off his boots and set them by the fire. Aramis chuckled as he took a swallow of the watered wine their hostess had provided for them. Lady Isabelle would have that thankless task. Athos always made a poor patient.

"You know, perhaps I was too harsh on him… It has been a while since Athos paid court to anyone, ever since Milady…" Porthos trailed off mid-sentence when he saw Bertrand approaching them.

"Monsieur Porthos, Monsieur Aramis…" the old man hesitated before continuing. "The comte… he bred his hounds with wolves and some of the beasts might have escaped into the countryside… There were old rumours but we've never seen anything the likes of what happened recently…"

"You believe one of the comte's wolf-dogs or more got loose?" Aramis questioned.

"Yes, it is probable but unlikely. One would expect the huntsmen to find some trace of any runaways by now, even if the comte's household did not report any missing…" Bertrand sounded defeated and weary. "No, if there is a wolf-dog on the loose, Comte Reynald and his children would have warned us, then hunt the beast down themselves… unless…" Bertrand paused. He could not openly accuse a man without proof. The comte had always treated them fairly and his children had always acted with great charity to all despite their family troubles. _Surely it was not... _

"It's the Devil himself…" Madame D'Artagnan announced from the top of the stairs. "They say in the marketplace that Trevor the woodcutter heard the howls of wolves near the old tower, yet the huntsmen found nothing when they searched there. A little girl from the next village saw a pack of large hounds led by two dark figures on horseback the day the Lombardies' niece was attacked."

"That's foolish talk from old wives! You should know better…" Bertrand snapped a bit too sharply. His wife clammed up, turned and walked down the upstairs hallway.

"Francesca… please," Bertrand hurried after her to apologize.

**Author's Notes: **

Rumours are spreading like wildfire about the nature of the beasts and even the D'Artagnan household is falling prey to the gossip. Athos is now injured after what appears to be an attempt on his life.


End file.
